In my cubicle, I took the brass key out of my pocket and pressed it flat against my chest.

The metal had gone warm from sitting in my hand all afternoon.

The number 114 left a faint impression in my palm.

I held it there until the plastic badge quit swinging.

Then I wrote 114 on a sticky note and tucked it under my keyboard.

The key was warm still.

Derek’s assistant left a voicemail at nine forty, as cheerful as a weather forecast.

Conference room, lunch provided, just the three of us.